


once, there was an angel

by ayselz



Series: regarding those who wander the land of dawn [2]
Category: Mobile Legends: Bang Bang (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, hahahahahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayselz/pseuds/ayselz
Summary: “The tears weren’t a figment of his imagination, after all. They were like tiny crystals, he thought distractedly, as they streaked down both of her cheeks. She still looked unearthly lovely. Something stirred in the far recesses of his mind, the very place where he closely kept the glimpses of his angel.‘I never thought I would see you again, Argus.’”–The Nightstalker has always dreamt of an angel. Her identity, though, is a mystery.





	once, there was an angel

**Author's Note:**

> This is also uploaded in fanfiction.net under the username "ajxqueen," my former username here. I can't access that account anymore, so. Hehehehez.

For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember exactly who that angel was. He would get glimpses of her, and whenever he was close to finally remembering, finally determining who she was and why she appeared in his visions, she always vanished. Like a snowflake melting too quickly in his palm, he tried to grasp at the vestiges of her, yet she slipped easily out of his fingers.

There were a few details, however, that he kept as close as he could: she had long, golden hair, liquid sunlight, and her smile was gentle, soothing.

Whenever the voices in his head got louder than tolerable, the Nightstalker closed his eyes, and summoned these minute details. A mantra he repeated softly to himself, _angel, angel_ , until the malevolent voices were drowned out by visions of her hair and her smile.

He did this way too often, reaching the point that he was not any more certain if she was a mere figment of his imagination, or if she was really, actually, real.

But, in retrospect, the Nightstalker remembered little.

There was a huge, gaping maw in his memories, a void he was frustrated to fill. The voices told him that his former life mattered little, that he belonged to the sword now, and that he lived now to satisfy his bloodlust, nothing more.

All he could remember, aside from the glimpses of the angel, was waking up in a cavern. His sword lying beside him, a deep green mist oozing out of it; the voices beckoning him to pick it up, to fulfill his destiny. When he did, its power filled him to the core, a surge of malicious energy that made him think that, with the sword in his hands, he would conquer the world.

_And conquer the world, I will._

Mindless wandering after finding his sword ensued, leaving bloody carnage and murder in his wake. Eventually, the Nightstalker stepped foot into the Land of Dawn. The voices rejoiced, crooned into his ear that this land was just lying in wait, full of kingdoms to lay siege onto, reigned over by royalty he must kill.

These were his first steps, they sang. After the Land of Dawn, he would venture out, find a way to reach the other planes if he could. It filled the Nightstalker with purpose. The angel was forgotten in that moment of imagined glory, and, briefly, the Nightstalker thought her smile turned into a frown in his imagination.

He headed to the kingdom of the Moon Elves first. They were a folk recovering from the invasion of the Queen of the Apocalypse herself, slowly but surely, and the voices deemed that there was no better moment to attack them than now. Even their newly-awakened king would not stand a chance against the poison of the Nightstalker’s sword.

Of course, the Nightstalker had no other choice but to obey.

However, there was something stopping him from finding the exact location of the kingdom. He could swear that the copse of trees he had entered didn’t look widely-encompassing when he ventured in it, but it has already been five days since he’d entered, and all the Nightstalker could see were seemingly endless rows of trees. At night, the leaves rustled, the sounds they made akin to hushed voices whispering amongst themselves.

Even with his angel in mind, he wasn’t able to find much comfort. The only fortune he had on him was the fact that he didn’t require to eat from time to time. The few berries which didn’t kill him were sufficient, so was the seldom fruit from a low-lying branch.

Now, the Nightstalker wasn’t someone who gave up on his quest easily. Or, maybe he was, in his former life, but he didn’t remember that anymore, and as far as he knew, he was unstoppable now. Whatever he desired, set his mind to, he accomplished eventually. So why was finding a crippled elven kingdom proving to be a difficult task?

His eyes snapped open at the sound of twigs breaking. Clutching his sword tight—and hearing the voices from within it soar with mad glee—the Nightstalker slowly whirled towards the source of the sound.

He hoped darkly that it was an elf, so he could beat the lights out of it, then force it to tell him the location of their kingdom.

A dark, bushy tail peeked out of the shrubs.

The Nightstalker swung his sword towards it. Green mist oozed out of the blade, the voices within it cried out for blood to be spilled, hollow whispers resonating in a darkening wood.

“Don’t hurt her!” There was a sudden blinding flash of light, and the Nightstalker found himself slumped on the forest floor, hands pressed to his eyes—to the spaces in his mask which let him see. His sword clattered uselessly to his side.

There was rustling of leaves and a soft, feminine squeak. “You didn’t have to do that, Rafaela!” came a high-pitched tone.

“Of course I did,” admonished another distinctly female voice. “He was about to slash you open with his sword, Nana.”

“But he didn’t!” the high-pitched voice addressed as Nana harrumphed in reply. “I’m going to go back to Miya, tell her about this.”

Footsteps sounded, and his sword clang as something hit it.

The Nightstalker hissed. His head pounded from the strain of the light—which has faded as quickly as it came, yet the effects did not was away as instantly—but he managed to reach out with a single hand. He grasped for his sword.

Someone put it onto his searching fingers, gently laying the hilt on his palm. Still grimacing as he was waiting for the pain to fade, he opened a single eye to see who had done it.

Crouched in front of him was a beautiful woman with flowing golden hair, an even more gilded halo resting daintily atop her head, and wide brown eyes. The Nightstalker almost gasped in surprise.

The golden-haired woman stared at him silently. It felt as if the whole forest ceased to make sound, as if they wanted to give her the silence she required in assessing him. The only sound he could hear was faint, faint pounding. Was it whatever was left of his heart, thundering away, or hers?

She slightly tilted her head to the side, and realization seemed to dawn in her eyes. The Nightstalker thought he saw tears brimming in them, but maybe it was just his eye playing tricks on him, a vestige of the sudden blinding light earlier.

Slowly, she reached out. Every muscle in his body tensed, yet he didn’t retaliate. He didn’t see this beautiful woman in front of him as an enemy, even if the malevolent voices of his sword crooned, urged him to strike, slash her face and make it bleed. Her face softened when she took hold of the hand on his face, and gently removed it.

The tears weren’t a figment of his imagination, after all. They were like tiny crystals, he thought distractedly, as they streaked down both of her cheeks. She still looked unearthly lovely. Something stirred in the far recesses of his mind, the very place where he closely kept the glimpses of his angel.

“I never thought I would see you again, Argus.”

As if struck by electricity, he flinched away from her. Her hand dropped listlessly, hurt openly making itself clear on her expression. The sword’s voices rose, ringing in his ears in a mad crescendo.

“That’s not my name,” he hissed at her. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, properly. Poised to strike at any moment, but she remained crouched in front of him, uncaring if he tried to attack her.

More tears leaked out of her dark, warm eyes. “I’m sorry for leaving you in that cave. I was terrified.”

_Why are you not killing her yet?_

“What cave?” he snarled. The voices snarled back at him, urging him to pierce the woman straight in her mellow little heart, watch as her golden hair turn crimson red with her own blood. “I don’t know you.” He was buying time, he realized faintly, but for what purpose?

She gave out a tiny, weak laugh. It seemed to sap more energy out of her than necessary, as she’d ended up slumping in from of him, the very image of frailty. “Of course you do not remember. Your sword has probably leeched out all the goodness in you, and replaced it with mindless violence.”

_Kill her! Now!_

The Nightstalker leapt to his feet, sword held tightly. He saw her tense up for a split-second, then do the same. Except that when she lifted her feet off her ground, bright and golden wings sprouted from her back. They shimmered, half-corporeal and half-liquid light, tethering her to the air as she glowered down at him. It was akin to facing the wrath of a goddess.

“I cannot honestly believe that you will ever raise your sword at me, Argus,” she said bitterly. Her face, now devoid of tears, has hardened. “I foolishly hoped that there was still traces of the old you within that ghastly form, but, no. You are as vile as your appearance now.

“You are no longer the Light of Dawn.” With these words, memories sparked to life. The void in his mind was filled with light, with vivid scenes of an angel in stark white, wielding a sword over the wizened forces of darkness. A golden-haired angel flew beside him, casting blinding white light on the enemies, and healing the little wounds they have successfully managed to inflict upon him.

The Nightstalker staggered, taking a shaky step backwards. His back hit a tree. More memories came to the surface, snatched from the murky depths of his own mind. The angel in white, and the golden-haired angel, speeding downwards from the heavens, eyes trained on the suffering world beneath them.

“What are these memories?”

But she did not answer. Instead, she casted him a pitying glance, and then the white, blinding light was back.

When it faded, the Nightstalker found himself alone in the woods once more. Darkness crawled slowly around him, the faint light coming from the moonrise drifting through the spaces between the canopy’s leaves. His sword, for the first time since he’d ever wielded it, was silent.

Once, there was an angel, and his name was Argus.


End file.
